As she closes her book and tilts her face upward to feel the warmth on her wrinkled skin, she hears a low rumbling in the distance, the thunder that presages the bulldozers. There will be no more stories for the animals. A wallaby pauses, pricks its ears forwards, bounds away from the sound. A flock of corellas rises suddenly and wheels overhead, screeching alarm to the skies. Behind them, a column of dust is rising, staining the blue to brown. Other birds take up the alarm, and the wetlands fill with warning cries. Black swans, wood ducks, water birds of all kinds take to the air, heading for safety.
The thunder grows louder: the ground is beginning to shake and the still water is rippling with shock waves. The air is sharp with the smell of crushed eucalyptus, and under it the dark stink of diesel. The animals are fleeing in panic now. Their alarm cries are lost in the deafening cacophony of grinding and cracking and tearing as virgin bushland is ripped up by the roots. She feels for the animals: she shares their terror. She wants to run too. She will not.
She bites her lips, tastes blood. She raises the crystal, smearing it with a bloody kiss, summoning the intelligence that rules beyond the Dark. She has made her decision. Now she will pay the price. She looks into the crystal, feels the vertigo as the dark mind sees her, takes her. She senses the Darkness coming. Shadows form and coalesce in the twilight under the trees, watching. She has let it in—whatever the outer Darkness brings here can be no worse than what the Company men will do. It is a choice of evils.
She stares as the scene takes on the slow horror-movie reality of nightmare. The bulldozer juggernaut is rolling towards her, destroying everything in its path. She sees a ti-tree snap and topple, revealing her first glimpse of bright yellow machinery, casting dark shadows in the swamp. Shadow rises to shadow.
The moment is upon her. She squares her shoulders, waiting.
It’s a good day to die.
* * *
Detective Inspector David Dyson faced the media once more.
“I think I can be fairly confident that we have solved the mystery of the disappearance of the old lady who lived in the swamp,” he said. “We have found the scattered remains of a caravan where it was bulldozed; we have found a brooch that has been identified as belonging to her; we have enough evidence to suggest that the woman’s body is among the dead. This appears to have been a straightforward killing. One of the Company employees is helping us with our enquiries.”
“What about the other bodies?”
“Our investigations are continuing,” Dyson said. “The case is being referred to the Serious Crimes Squad.” He allowed himself a tight smile. I never liked those smug bastards anyway, he thought. Let them make sense of it if they can.
“There are still some pretty dark rumours,” one of the reporters said, “about what else might be out there.”
“Some of the locals are still convinced the place is haunted.”
“There are always rumours and superstitions around cases like these,” Dyson said wearily. “I promise you, I haven’t seen any ghosts.”
The reporters laughed.
Dyson knew they didn’t want to believe in anything other than human agency for what had happened out there, any more than he did. “There will be more updates as evidence becomes available,” he said.
As he turned to leave, he slipped his hand into his coat pocket, touching the cool black crystal with his fingertips. He closed his hand over it. It warmed quickly—too quickly—to his touch.
The Changeling
James Bradley
Hannah is not certain what wakes her: not a sound, she thinks, more a sense someone or something has passed through the room.
For a space of seconds she does not move, just lies, listening. Outside it is dark, silent save for the sound of the stream. She can smell woodsmoke, the sweet scent of the thyme over the fire; next to her in his cradle Connor sleeps, his breath slow and shallow. Somewhere in the distance an owl cries out.
Rising she crosses to the door, the shock of the cold making her gasp as she opens it. The moon high overhead, darkness pooling beneath the trees, in the runnels of the grass. Although it is still she cannot shake the feeling she is not alone, that a presence hovers nearby. After a moment a fox emerges from the blackberries by the stream, its lean shape separating from their shadow to jog quickly through the moonlight, head lowered; as it disappears again she turns inside again, only to notice the horseshoe that usually hangs over the doorway lying in the dark by her feet; kneeling she picks it up, and places it on the table before she lies down and draws the blanket around her shoulders.
When she wakes again it is already light, the sound of the birds outside loud. Sitting up she is surprised to see Connor is already awake, his eyes focused on the roof overhead. For a few seconds she watches him, wondering how long he has been lying there like that, something in the way he stares suddenly striking her as peculiar. As she reaches for him he flinches, his body stiffening, but as he finds her breast he relaxes, Hannah closing her eyes as the pressure of his mouth opens her inside, the feeling blunt, like desire. Like grief.
Once he is fed she dresses, then, drawing her shawl about herself, heads out into the quiet of the morning with Connor in her arms. Outside it is still, grey mist between the trees, down by the water the shape of a heron is visible and the quick plop of the otters as they flick and dive can be heard, but she barely notices as she hurries on, up the path toward the road.
Now she is alone she is not sure how she feels about living out here on her own. Brendan built the cottage when they were courting, spending his evenings cutting wood and daubing the walls. It had been his gift to her, a demonstration of his belief in their future, yet Hannah had never cared for the house; instead it had been the place she loved, its proximity to the river and the woods, the curling brambles and wildflowers. Although it was only half a mile from the village, it was possible to step off the road and disappear down the path into a secret place, one that seemed to have a life all of its own. This morning she is mostly aware of the damp branches blocking her path, the way they slap her face and wet her sleeves, so that by the time she reaches the road and begins the walk to the fields she is wet and Connor is wailing.
Today they are harrowing, breaking the cold ground for the seed. Sometimes when they work there is merriment, laughter and singing, but not today, for it is hard, dismal work, an icy drizzle misting across them, the freezing soil turning their hands red and aching, so they work in silence, the only sound their breath, the sudden cries of the crows each time one of them rises to cast stones at them.
With Connor’s weight against her Hannah works more slowly, meaning the others are already gathered by the fire in the field’s corner when she leaves her work and joins them for the morning meal. Ill-tempered with the work, they barely acknowledge her as she seats herself, shifts Connor’s weight so he may feed. But as she unties her bodice he suddenly pulls away and opening his mouth begins to shriek.
It is not a sound she has heard before, not a sound any child should make. Not a cry but one continuous note, high, piercing, horrible. Startled she looks up, sees the others staring at her. Unsure what to do she tries to adjust his position, jiggling him to calm him, but nothing seems to work, until at last she stumbles to her feet and retreats across the field, away from the others.
When at last he stops she is shaken, more shaken than she could have imagined. In the sudden silence she sits trembling, frightened to move unless he starts again. Finally she summons the courage to turn him, but as she shifts her weight he suddnely tenses and begins again, the sound louder this time, more sustained, continuing on and on and on until it seems it will never cease.
* * *
In the days that follow the sudden bouts of shrieking grow more frequent, Connor’s high, inhuman cry leaving her so shaken she can barely think, barely function, so it is all she can do to draw water from the stream and gather the wool for spinning. On the fourth day it is too much, and she runs from the cottage in tears and s
tands in the forest with her eyes screwed shut, chanting wordlessly to herself to try to drown out the sound of his screaming.
When she returns he is lying quietly in his crib, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, but as she approaches he flinches away from her, as if frightened she means to touch him, and staring down at him she finds herself certain some distemper has crept into him without her noticing, something she does not know how to name or control.
* * *
She was nine when Brendan arrived in the village. The master had been visiting the Duke at Chatterton and when he returned Brendan was walking behind him. Later they learned there had been an accident in the Duke’s stable, that Brendan’s father had been killed, and for reasons that were never fully clear the master had offered to take him into his service.
Brendan’s father had come from over the water, and Brendan had the dark hair and black eyes of his father’s people. Yet he was a good lad, clear and kind and open-faced, and although at first some of the men resented him they could not hate him for long.
The first time Hannah saw him she was surprised by how tall he was, how handsome. He was leading one of the master’s bays, moving lightly as the horse danced and whinnied, his face alight. Although the horse had been expensive it had proven wild and unmanageable, refusing all riders and charging at any who approached it. But as she watched Brendan took its halter and pressed his forehead to its face, stroking its neck and murmuring quietly until it finally grew calm.
As Brendan grew he became more handsome, his good looks and graceful charm meaning all the girls wanted him for a sweetheart. Sometimes Hannah watched the way they fought to dance with him at the festivals, saw the generous way he accepted their hands, his habit of giving each his attention no matter whether they were pretty or not.
Yet somehow Hannah never danced with him. Not because she didn’t care for him, but because something held her back. Occasionally she would catch him looking at her, and he would look away, but not before he had smiled.
Then when she was fifteen there came an afternoon when she was out on the road and she heard a horse behind her. Turning she saw it was the bay, Brendan astride it. Reining it in he stopped beside her.
“Hannah Wilkes,” he said. “I had not thought to see you out here.”
She turned to look at him. He was smiling, carelessly beautiful.
“Then you cannot know this road. I walk this way often.”
He hesitated, and for a moment she regretted the sharpness of her tone.
“I’m sorry,” he said, dismounting. “I did not mean to offend you.”
She shook her head. “You didn’t.”
“Why do you come here?”
She shrugged. “I like the quiet,” she said, aware of the intentness of the way he watched her, his attention to what she said.
“And you?”
He smiled. “She needed riding and it seemed a fine day to take her out.”
Reaching up Hannah stroked the bay’s long nose. “Is she still wild?”
Brendan patted the bay’s neck with one hand. “Not for me.”
While they were speaking they had reached the shadow of the great oak that stood between the road and the wood. Looking at it Brendan grinned.
“Come with me,” he said, looping the horse’s halter over a branch and opening the gate. When she hesitated he held out his hand.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Taking his outstretched hand Hannah allowed him to lead her down the hill into the wood. Beech trees grew there, tall and green, and beyond them a stream. By the stream he slowed, placing his hands on her waist to lift her over, then, taking her hand, he led her on, into the wood.
Beneath the trees it was quiet, the only sound the wind in the trees, the cries of the birds. Brendan moved quickly, quietly, a smile on his face. Then, as they reached the edge of a hollow he stopped, motioning to her to keep quiet.
At first she did not see what he was pointing at. Then she saw a mother fox and her cubs, playing in the hollow. The cubs were small, jumping and pouncing on each other and rolling here and there. Surprised, she smiled, and turning saw Brendan smiling back.
“How do you know they were here?”
He shrugged, then placing a hand on her arm pointed to the ridge behind the cubs where the vixen had appeared, a rabbit in her mouth. Perhaps catching wind of them she stopped, sniffing the air. Down below the cubs began to mewl and cry, racing toward her. Then, as the cubs reached her, the vixen lowered her head, and with her cubs jumping around her, jogged down into the hollow.
“Does Old Hughes know?” she asked, and at the mention of the gamekeeper’s name Brendan shot her a conspiratorial smile and shook his head.
“What if he finds out?”
Brendan shrugged. “He’ll not mind about a few foxes.”
Looking down at the mother tearing the rabbit apart for her cubs Hannah remembered how many times foxes had stolen chickens from the farms nearby.
“Are you sure about that?”
This time he grinned. “No.”
That evening, when she arrived home, her father saw something in her manner, and, suspicious, asked her where she had been.
“Nowhere,” she said, “just walking.”
But her brother, Will, snorted. “Young John Bradley said he saw her walking with Brendan O’Rourke on the village road.”
She shot her brother an angry look, but he just folded his arms and smiled unpleasantly. Across the table her father looked up, his face suspicious. The Bradleys owned the farm that bordered theirs, and he had long intended Hannah would marry Old John Bradley’s eldest son, Young John. Yet she did not care for young John, thinking there was a coldness in him, a resentment that made him small.
Her father removed his pipe from his mouth. “Brendan O’Rourke?”
“He was out riding,” she said, perhaps too boldly. “It didn’t mean anything.”
Her father sat staring at her for a long moment. “You be careful of that boy,” he said at last. “I’ll not have you as some Irishman’s whore.”
* * *
Sometimes she wonders whether things might have been different if not for her brother and father’s determination she wed John Bradley. For as the summer progressed she found herself meeting with Brendan in secret.
It was intoxicating at first, to have somebody so obviously in love with her. He was so handsome, so kind, so in love with the idea of her it was almost impossible to resist. Yet still some part of her held back. It wasn’t that she didn’t care for him: she did. Nor was it that he didn’t make her happy, or that his presence didn’t make her spirits lift: indeed when they were together she could almost convince herself she loved him as he clearly loved her. But each time they parted she felt that feeling slip away, replaced by a sick feeling she was betraying someone, although whether it was him or her she was never quite sure.
Sometimes she wondered why he couldn’t see it, couldn’t tell, and then she felt wicked, certain that it was her doing, that she was deceiving him. More than once she decided to break it off, and once even did, yet each time she saw him again, and her doubts fled. It was as if his love were enough for both of them when they were together.
Meanwhile Will watched her, seeking to catch her out. They had never been close, something in his nature making him jealous of her. Sometimes she wondered what it was that made him want her to marry John at all, although she knew the truth was simple: that he wished her to conform to his wishes, to do as she was bid.
And then, on the evening of the harvest, she and Brendan slipped away into the forest together. The night was warm, and as they walked they could hear the sound of laughter and music from the feast over the back. Yet as they reached the stream they heard a noise behind them, and turning, saw Will standing there.
“Will!” she said, in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
He laughed. “I would rather know what you are doing here, although I do n
ot think it will take much unravelling.”
“Where I go is my affair.”
“Not when you go with this one.”
“It is not your concern, Will. Go back to the feast.”
He laughed. “Oh but it is my concern, sister. For you have been forbidden to walk out with this Irishman.”
At this Brendan stepped forward. “I have no quarrel with you, Will.”
Will looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “No? Well I have a quarrel with you. Have you forgotten my sister is promised to another?”
“Promised by you,” Hannah said.
“Promised by our father. Or have you forgotten him?” Will said hotly, stepping forward. Beside her Brendan extended an arm, shielding Hannah from her brother, and as he did Hannah felt something shift, felt the way things moved around her. Perhaps Will felt it too, for he hesitated, then shook his head, and snorted.
“So it’s to be like that, is it? Well you’ve made your bed, Hannah, I hope you enjoy lying in it.”
* * *
As the days grow longer she visits the village less and less. Although Connor’s fits of screaming have grown less frequent he has grown increasingly difficult in other ways, only rarely sleeping, his moods alternating almost without warning between jags of hysterical crying and a curious, empty state where he lies staring at the wall or the ceiling, as if seeing something there that she cannot. The nights are the worst, when he will not sleep for longer than an hour, demanding food and screaming in the dark or lying staring into the black in silence. Occasionally she tries to convince him to sit, for he is almost eight months old, and should be crawling soon, but he turns rigid at her touch, or lolls away.
The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2014 (Volume 5) Page 17